I was six years old the first time I kissed a girl. Her name was Susan Baxter, and we were playing a game that seemed like a bastardized version of I Love Lucy. She fixed plate of clay with a side of green plastic beads at the plastic kitchen counter, then put it on the tiny table. That was my cue to come over, panting with the effort of dragging along a briefcase I could’ve fit in. I announced that honey, I was in fact home, and she threw her arms around me, smashing her lips against mine. I ordered her off of me, and when she failed to comply, I threw the beads at her and ran like hell.

That’s what it was like when Mom decided to move in with Bill. They were just playing house, and it took an obscene amount of effort for Bree and I to pack up everything and move into the three-floor estate Bill bought (to prove just how much money he actually had), especially since we all knew they were just going to end up throwing in the towel and the green plastic beads and running away (probably not in the exact way Susan Baxter and I had ten years earlier).

I first met Bill a week before we moved in to the new house, and I meet his son Garen on moving day. Mom and Bill evidently have better things to do than try being slightly intelligent human beings and are too busy kissing in the dining room (and, more likely than not, trying to make their sons and daughter sick) to help unpack, and Garen doesn’t intend to help unless he’s given the okay. He watches me carry disgustingly large box after disgustingly large box into the house. On my fourth trip inside, he had retrieved a cherry-red electric guitar and is lying on his back in the middle of the entrance hall floor, tuning it.

“Do you want help?” he asks after I trip on the stairs for the second time. I look over my shoulder. He’s staring at a spot on the floor, but he glances over at me after a few seconds of silence. His eyes are such a dark shade of green that they look almost black. I turn back around and keep lugging the box upstairs.

“No, I got it,” I say. I drop the box off in my room and go back out to the moving van. Bree hands off a box of china, and I drag it inside.

“You’re going to break something. Probably something glass, and then probably your back,” Garen says. I step over him, resisting the oh-so-tempting urge to crush his skull under fifty pounds of porcelain.

“I’m not going to break something,” I say through gritted teeth.

“You’re being a dick,” he replies calmly. I stop in my tracks and glare down at him.

“Remind me of the part where I ask for the commentary,” I demand. He smirks and looks down at the guitar again. The kitchen door bursts open.

“Travis, you met Garen!” The gleeful enthusiasm in my mother’s voice is enough to make me gag. I look back down at Garen, who is still lying on the linoleum between my feet.

“It’s kind of hard to miss him,” I say.

“Why don’t you ask him to help you?” Mom suggests.

“I offered,” Garen says in his never ending quest to be annoyingly helpful.

“I’ve got it,” I repeat. Gravity decides otherwise, and I have to adjust my hold on the box in order to avoid making a Garen-shaped pancake.

“If you crush my guitar, I’ll kill you in your sleep,” Garen warns.

“I was actually going to aim for your face,” I explain. Mom frowns.

“It’s nice to see you… can talk,” she says slowly.

“Yeah. For around seventeen years now,” Garen says, nodding.

“I meant to each other. The uh… openness is nice,” Mom says.

“If that’s the word you wanna use, sure. The openness is just great,” I say. I readjust my hold again and bring the box over to the kitchen. Bill grins awkwardly at me as I pass.

“Here,” I say disgustedly, and I thrust the box into his arms. People who make out with my mother do not get to smile at me.

“I’m writing a song,” Garen says as I walk past him again. Next it’s a box of clothes for Bree’s room.

“It’s called ‘Travis Is A Stubborn Asshole’,” he continues as I head past him for the stairs. On my return trip, he starts to play, and it’s worse because he’s good.

“It’s about this guy Garen who has this stepbrother that starts breaking boxes full of stuff because he won’t ask for help carrying them,” he explains.

“I am not your brother,” I snap.

“Did I say you were?” Garen asks sharply. “I said ‘stepbrother’.”

“They’re not married,” I say.

“They will be eventually. You think Evelyn would’ve agreed to move in if she didn’t think she’d get a rock out of it?” Garen asks.

“Shut up,” I snarl. I retrieve the next box. “Shit. I think I found my sister’s TV,” I gasp.

Garen abandons his guitar on the floor and braces the box with his knee while I fix my hold. He covers my hands with his, and I spread my fingers apart so he can slide his in between mine.

“They’re not getting married,” I say.

“So? They might as well, since they’re already playing one big happy family. You’re so deep in denial that it’s actually sort of cute,” Garen says.

“And you’re cool with that?” I ask.

“You being cute? Well, I’ll admit that those funny tingly feelings in my stomach are kind of creepy now that they’re in relation to my pseudo-stepbrother, but I’m willing to move past it if you are,” Garen says. I push the box hard against his chest.

“Fuck you. You know what I was talking about,” I say.

“I know, they might get married, you’re a whiney bitch, blah, blah, blah. And I really don’t care what Dad does. He and my mom got divorced when I was fourteen, right after they sent me to PMA, so it’s not like I have big issues about him moving on too fast. ’Sides, my mom’s a bitch anyways,” he replies.

“What’s PMA?” I ask. Garen shakes his hair out of his eyes as we reach the top of the stairs. He leans against the banister for a second while trying to tighten his hold. I lace his fingers through mine so he can hold more of the box.

“Patton Military Academy. All-boys military school. I went there for three years. Just got pulled last week,” he says.

“Sounds… fun,” I say as we maneuver awkwardly through Bree’s doorway. “More fun than Lakewood. Dad told me you do cross-country,” he says. We lower the box to the floor and I brush my hair off my forehead.

“Yeah. The only junior on varsity,” I say. Garen smirks at me before he starts for the door.

“Star player. Well, aren’t you cute,” he deadpans. I can’t tell whether he’s making fun of me or flirting with me, and the thought of either makes my face heat up. I rub the inside of my wrist across my forehead and turn to face the mirror on Bree’s dresser.

“Can you stop doing that?” I ask. Garen turns back towards me and his brow wrinkles in confusion.

“Stop doing what?” he asks.

“Calling me cute. That’s twice in ten minutes,” I say. His eyes drop to the floor, then flicker back up to my face.

“And it bothers you, I take it?” he says. I push past him.

“I didn’t say that,” I say.

Garen hoists himself up onto the banister and presses his combat boots onto the top of the railing to keep himself at my speed as I go back downstairs.

“Then what’s the problem?” he inquires. I glance at him. He props his chin up on his fist and widens his eyes like whatever my response is would be the most interesting thing he’s ever heard.

“I don’t know,” I say before I can stop myself. Garen’s eyebrows shoot up, and I snap my mouth shut so fast that my teeth click together audibly.

“And why, pray tell, would that be? Other than because, you know, you’re suddenly madly and desperately hot for my body and tormented by the idea of your latent homosexuality?” he adds.

“Shut up before I push you off the banister,” I mutter. Garen grins and jumps off the end of the rail.

“It’s okay, Travis, you don’t have to pretend. I know that behind that big, jockish exterior, there’s a sad, scared, little boy just waiting to get his stepbrother into bed,” he says, gripping my shoulder comfortingly.

“Garen,” Bill says warningly from behind us, “we spoke about this before we got here. I told you to behave yourself. They didn’t let you act like that at Patton, so don’t expect to act like that here.” Garen throws his arm over my shoulders and spins around, steering me back to face Bill.

“Actually, they did let me act like that at Patton, as long as I did push-ups while I was hitting on the drill sergeant,” he announces. Bill’s eyes darken.

Garen turns back towards the kitchen, still clutching me under one arm.

“You’re gonna snap my neck if you don’t stop that,” I warn.

“Only if I’m lucky,” Garen says, finally releasing me. I follow him into the dining room where Mom and Bree are already sitting down. Bill sits down at the head of the table, and I take the seat next to my sister. Mom and Bill join hands, and Bill takes Bree’s. Mom holds hers out expectantly to Garen, and Bree takes mine. Garen stares at Mom’s hand, then at his father.

“I’m Jewish,” he says. Mom’s brow creases in confusion.

“Bill never told me you were Jewish,” she says. She turns to Bill in thinly veiled horror. “Why didn’t you tell me your son is Jewish? I can’t believe I tried to get him to say Grace, I’m so embarrassed.”

No, she’s not. I stare at her. It’s easy to tell, just by the look on her face, that she’s more appalled at the Jew seated to her right than at her own manners.

“He’s not really Jewish, Evelyn. It’s just something he picked up from his mother after the divorce. He was raised more as a Christian,” Bill says. Garen lowers his chin slightly and stares at his father through the shock of hair in front of his eyes.

“Dad, I’ve been going to synagogue since I was two. Bar Mitzvah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah. The whole shebang. I’m not even close to Christian,” he says. Bill clears his throat.

“Well, then don’t participate, son. Bree, would you like to say Grace?” he questions. Bree shrugs, and once she’s done, Mom turns to me.

“Travis, did you take your medication?” she asks. I pause with my pills halfway to my mouth.

“Mom, I’ve been taking them for years. I think I can handle it,” I say. Bree snorts and I toss her a grin before dry-swallowing the two pills. I feel Garen watching me as I swallow, but I ignore him and pass Bree the serving dish of spaghetti.

“What do they keep you medicated for?” he asks.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” I say. It’s my trained response for people I don’t like. Bree’s friends, Mom’s friends from work. Short, rude, to the point. I just met him, and I don’t need to talk about this.

“They’re antidepressants,” Bree says. I turn my head sharply to her and kick her. Hard.

“Shut up,” I order.

“Ow! Mom, Travis just kicked me!” Bree says.

“Well, she deserved it! I think the sentence ‘don’t want to talk about it’ implied that I didn’t want anyone to mention it,” I snap.

“Um, I think he’s gonna find out sooner or later, asshole. If you don’t want everyone to find out about that visit the land of Valium you took two years ago, you shouldn’t take antidepressants at the dinner table,” Bree says.

“Fuck you, Bridget,” I snarl. I keep my eyes glued to her. Mom must’ve told Bill about it. She had to have. You don’t move in with a guy without mentioning the baggage that is your crazy son. But Garen obviously had no idea, or he would’ve known about the meds. I hate that look I know will be on his face. That surprised, sympathetic look.

“Travis, Bridget, both of you will stop fighting this instant,” Mom orders.

“He started it!” Bree shouts.

“You’re the one who told him what the meds were for!” I shoot back.

“Like he wouldn’t figure it out the next time you go psycho and try to kill yourself,” Bree says with a roll of her eyes.

“It was one fucking time two years ago!” I yell.

“Travis, stop,” Mom commands. Bullshit. She can’t be siding with Bree, not now. Not about this.

I shove my chair away from the table and storm out of the room. Going upstairs is a pointless, overly dramatic display of teen angst, but I head up there anyway. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and stare at the floor. I can’t throw myself onto my bed and cry my eyes out, because my bed is propped up against the wall, waiting to be taken down and positioned. I wouldn’t do that even if my bed was ready, considering I’m not an eight year old girl. I yank open the window and twist sideways to sit, one foot balanced on the sill, the other bracing myself on the floor. I stare down at the backyard for what might be some combination of minutes or hours before I hear the door open slowly.

“Can I come in?” Garen asks cautiously from the doorway. I nod without looking at him. I hear him close the door behind himself and walk across the room to join me at the window. He swings one leg out to sit so he’s straddling the sill.

“You gonna jump?” he asks. I have to laugh at the indifference in his voice. There’s silence for a minute before I clear my throat and shrug slightly.

“I downed a bottle of Valium a few days before my fifteenth birthday, and they’ve had me jacked up on SSRI’s ever since. I’m not suicidal, and I’m not gonna jump,” I say. He raises his hips so he can fish around in the pocket of his jeans.

“Good. ’Cause if I’m here when you throw yourself out the window, they’ll probably think I pushed you. Lovers’ spat or something,” he says with a grin.

“Why do you keep saying shit like that?” I ask.

“I’m still exploring the joys of my brand new housemates. And no offense, but your mom isn’t exactly my type,” he explains.

“What, I am?” I ask. Garen looks me up and down, then focuses his gaze on my shoe.

“You might be. Wanna?” he asks. For one mind-numbing second, I have no idea what he means by that. Then I see his extended hand and the gummy bears on the center of his palm.

“You’re a seventeen year old guy who carries around gummy bears?” I say in disbelief, staring at him. He frowns and tears a green one in half with his teeth.

“Shut up, they’re good,” he says. He drops the handful of bears onto my lap and takes the package back out of his pocket. I pick up the bears and pop a few into my mouth. “So, you gonna tell me about it?” he asks, and I choke on the bears.

“No,” I gasp out when I’m finally no longer in danger of suffocation.

“Why not?” Garen presses on. I throw a gummy bear at him.

“Because. I just met you,” I say.

“So I have to wait like, a month before I find out why you tried to off yourself when you were fourteen?” Garen asks. I nod.

“I’m breaking you in. If I just laid out all my crazy cards now, there wouldn’t be any fun left for the rest of the time our parents spend playing house,” I say.

“You still think that’s what they’re doing?” Garen asks. I reach over and steal another handful of gummy bears.

“Uh huh. I’m telling you, they won’t last a year. My money’s on three months,” I say. Garen shrugs.

“Not so sure about that. Dad’s looking for someone who will do what he says when he says it, and your mom might just be spineless enough to play the part,” he says.

“Then I guess it sucks that I’ve already decided that if they try to get engaged, I’m gonna blow up the house,” I sigh. Garen nods knowingly.

“That does suck. Mind you, I’d appreciate some warning before you start on the TNT?” he says. I smirk.

“Oh, you’ll have warning. It’ll probably be in the form of a bellowed war cry before I disappear into the basement for hours on end,” I say.

“We don’t have a basement,” Garen points out. I blink.

“Bullshit. Everyone has a basement,” I say. Garen shrugs.

“We’ve got a shed out back, I think. That work?” he asks.

“For my imaginary bomb building? Yeah, it should,” I say, nodding. Garen stands up and swings his leg back into the room.

“Think of these as a consolation prize to dinner. I’ve got about a billion bags in my room. Always do,” he says. “Which was pretty hard to swing when I was at PMA. Some guys smuggled in drugs, some smuggled in porn. I was the only one hardcore enough to break out the bears.”

I laugh and take the bag from him. He stands there for a second in a sudden awkward hesitation, then turns around and heads for his own room.